


Time Traveller's Flu

by guybriefly



Category: Crash Bandicoot (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sick Character, Uncommon Cold, brief angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 20:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11881926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guybriefly/pseuds/guybriefly
Summary: Out of all the things that could happen in the vortex of time, catching a bad cold is one of the least severe, but one of the most annoying. Luckily, N. Tropy has a good friend looking out for him. Hopefully it won't all be ruined by one selfish idea, that'd be terrible.





	Time Traveller's Flu

‘Doctor Tropy…?’

Tropy barely looks up from his nest of blankets. ‘Go away.’

Shuffling his feet in the doorway, N. Gin makes an indecisive noise, exhaling through his mouth like someone slowly stepping down on a bashed-up bike horn. Grunting, N. Tropy burrows deeper into his warren, pulling the blankets tighter around himself and sniffling, regarding Gin with bleary red eyes and a scowl.

‘Doctor Cortex said to bring you this…’

He doesn’t look up, but he hears N. Gin laugh weakly and enter the room, the uneven lilting click of his shoes on the floor coming closer until he places a teacup on N. Tropy’s bedside table with a clink. N. Tropy watches it out of the corner of his eye. Steam curls in a long white plume from it, along with a sickly-sweet honey scent.

‘Doctor Cortex told you-’ He pauses, inhaling sharply before stifling a wracking sneeze- ‘To bring me this.’

Gin sounds audibly nervous. ‘I- uhm- yeees, he- he told me- to-’

He’s _lying,_ of course he is. Cortex has only visited him once during his recovery period, in a full hazmat suit, to laugh at him for a solid five minutes and leave. N. Gin has brought him the tea himself. He’s just too embarrassed to admit it. In case N. Tropy doesn’t like it. Because he’s so goddamn _wishy-washy_ when it comes to doing things for himself.

Tropy appreciates the gesture.

‘Thank you.’ Withdrawing his hands from the warmth of his blankets, he reaches over and takes the tea. His hair is all in a disarray, black and silver strands sticking out errantly; he’s been trying his best to comb it back into place after each cough or sneeze but he just can’t seem to get it to do what he wants.

From his peripheral vison he can tell that Gin is watching intently. He brings the cup to his lips, inhales the warm, sweet steam, feels it clear his head just a little, before taking a sip. The steam alone is enough to make him feel just that little bit better, but the honey-lemon elixir does wonders for his poor throat, hoarse from hacking and coughing and fits of sneezes. It glides down with the consistency of warm syrup. He feels warmth pool in his chest, behind his ribs, then settle in the pit of his queasy stomach.

‘It’s very good,’ he says, hoarsely, ‘Tell Doctor Cortex I said thank you.’

Gin almost seems knocked off guard, forgetting his own lie before quickly righting himself. ‘Oh! Oh, yes, Doctor- Doctor Cortex, yes, who- told me to- bring you the- tea- yes, of course, I’ll… I’ll tell him. Yes.’

God, he’s always been such an atrocious liar. N. Tropy takes another long, slow sip, savouring the sensation of the hot, sweet tea trickling down his sore throat, before suddenly setting it down, hard enough to cause droplets to fly awry and stain the bedside table; he’s lurching, inhaling sharply in a gasp, and he fumbles for a tissue with which to contain the barking sneeze that overwhelms him. It leaves him a little teary eyed and trembling, and he tosses the tissue into the nearby waste paper basket before grabbing another to mop at his eyes and forehead.

Gin doesn’t speak while Tropy tidies himself up, awfully flustered by the force of his sneezing fit. The others could hear it from across the building. Assistants flinched every time another echoed out. The guy was _sick_ and everyone was worried it was catching. Gin decided to break the silence.

‘Time Traveller’s flu, huh?’

Tropy looks up, sniffling. The tip of his nose has a red glow to it. Nobody's brave enough to make a _Rudolph_ joke. Gin’s nervous chuckle fades into an awkward few seconds of silence. He’s heard of Time Traveller’s flu, but he never really considered it something _possible._ Ailments and injuries caused by the icy vacuum of time were things like _crushing,_ and _implosion,_ and _freezing,_ one gap in your armour and you’d be nothing but bones and paste floating between eons. The idea that, out of all the bad things that could happen, N. Tropy was struck down with a bad _cold,_ it’s ludicrous.

There’s no difference between Time Traveller’s Flu and a bad cold, anyway. Sneezing. Headaches. Coughing. Hot and cold flushes. Shivers. Congestion. Regardless, it’s pissing Tropy off. The stuffy nose, the woozy head, the constant quaking, it’s getting on his nerves, it’s _terribly_ undignified.

‘Is it…?’

With an aggravated sigh, Tropy snuggles deeper into his blankets. ‘It’s not contagious.’

There’s something kinda adorable about it. He’s all nestled up like a swaddled kitten. Even his little scowl is cute. It’s as if he’s trying to will the cold out of his body.

‘The tea helps,’ he growls, hoarsely, offering a weak smile to an anxious N. Gin, ‘It soothes my throat. Just the ticket. Thank you.’

Gin _giggles._ It’s an odd sound, but it’s the only suitable outlet for the glee that comes with such polite, genuine praise. A blush rises to his face as Nefarious takes a long, slow sip, inhaling the hot steam, and as his face heats up he feels the missile thermoregulate and pour out a curling billow of white.

Something about N. Tropy, even now, is incredibly _elegant._ His face is drawn and gaunt, cheeks hollow and eyes deep-set in shadow under a scowling brow. Although his body has been absorbed into the amorphous gaudy mass that is the blankets, his slender fingers grasp the cup with an immense gentleness. Staring at those long, bony digits makes N. Gin’s heartbeat go strange, his chest constricts, his throat feels tight.

‘D- do you need anything else?’ He’s desperate. So eager to please. He does _so_ want to be useful, so badly, so much. ‘More blankets? M- more tea? I have more lemons. I can get you- any- anything you like.’

He lets out a tiny chuckle, twitching, and Tropy slowly looks at him with a small, sly smile, a knowing glee glinting in his misty, red eyes.

‘Are you _sure_ it was Cortex’s idea to bring me the tea?' he asks, hoarse but playful. N. Gin turns pink. ‘You don’t have to lie. By all means, you shouldn’t. You’re so _bad_ at it!’

He laughs, but the humour is wasted on N. Gin. He’s shuffling his feet, looking at the floor, caught in his lie, upset, ashamed. N. Tropy reaches out of his blanket nest, disrupting his cocoon, to gently brush his pale, cold fingers against Gin’s gloved hand.

‘It’s _good._ Listen to me. You’ve _really_ helped.’ He smiles as he sees the praise go to N. Gin’s head, a smile flickering across the smaller man’s face. ‘And besides, it’s nice to spend time with you. Even if I’m-’

He pauses, inhaling sharply, tossing his head back and holding one hand out as if to tell N. Gin, _step back, this could get dangerous._ At this angle, and this _colour,_ Gin can really see how prominent and angular N. Tropy’s nose is, a strong Greek arch, and then the time traveller lurches forwards, only barely managing to muffle the barking sneeze in another handkerchief, before tossing it into the basket without looking.

‘- _Sick,’_ he moans mournfully, before turning to Gin. ‘But honestly, it’s a lot more tolerable with you here.’

The room gets warm.

Squeaking a little in embarrassment, Gin blushes, ears getting too hot and his metal face plate heating up like a computer overexerting. A hot white mist pours in a stammering spurt from the missile, regulating his heat, and Tropy takes a deep breath through his nose, inhaling the hot, pure wisps of steam.

A thought crosses his mind.

_Steam does wonders to cure a stuffy nose._

‘N. Gin, would you mind… coming closer?’

_And sweating helps to get sickness out of the body, doesn’t it?_

He reaches out his hands and N. Gin is surprised when he places them on his soft hips.

_And it works miracles for the pores…_

Gin lets out a trembling gasp as he’s gently lifted onto the bed, guided to sit almost _on N. Tropy’s lap!,_ and N. Tropy gently runs his fingers up and down Gin’s sides, lingeringly, absentmindedly, as if he’s thinking, or preparing, or savouring… he leans down, slightly, slowly, until his lips graze N. Gin’s ear, a cool, hoarse breath turning into a chuckle when Gin anxiously, half-seriously asks:

‘You’re- heh, heh- sure you’re not contagious…?’

A lump forms in his throat, a heat wells in his chest. N. Tropy’s hands rest on his shoulders, massaging gently. He can only imagine how much it’d ruin the mood if he sneezed right now.

‘You’re such a brilliant scientist,’ Tropy growls, still sore-sounding, ‘One of the best of your time, honestly. Such a brilliant mind…’

Gin turns pink. A wisp of steam escapes the rocket and a squeak of embarrassment escapes his lips. He’s always wanted to hear this, but it seems so strange, so out-of-nowhere, but he just _melts_ whenever he feels those broad, strong, cold hands squeeze his shoulders, rub the crook of his sore neck, working tenderly at the knots of stress and tension.

‘H- ha- Nef _arious,_ you’re _planning_ something,’ he whines, not at all protesting, a waltzing, wheedling tone, ‘What’s your _scheme?’_

‘In due time, my dear,’ he says, and oh god, N. Gin _dissolves._ It’s like syrup, or wax, dripping down his back, ringing in his ears, shivering through his spine. ‘I’ve always quite admired your dedication to your work… your devotion… there’s something Cortex would never understand, there’s passion, and I _do_ adore that so…’

Another puff of steam swells out, and Tropy inhales it greedily, but he breaks the moment by noisily wiping his nose. Gin almost bursts out laughing. The big blue Casanova is just so _congested._

Then something occurs to him. Steam helps ease congestion. Steam helps cure a cold.

Nefarious is using him as a quick cure for his Time Traveller’s flu. As his personal humidifier. He’s been reduced to a job that could be done by a hot bowl of water.

 _God,_ that’s humiliating.

Tropy tries to keep going, discarding the tissue and saying something about N. Gin’s groundbreaking work in the defence industry, but Gin has stopped listening. He huffs slightly, turning cold, he feels _sick._ The things Tropy was saying were actually things he wanted to hear. Was he this easy to manipulate? Of course he was. _Fuck,_ tears are starting to well, a pressure is building in his chest, he wraps his arms around himself and hunches forwards, N. Tropy’s grasp loosens on his shoulders.

Tropy realises something’s seriously wrong when instead of a curl of white steam, a plume of blackish-green fog belches out, and it makes him cough hard, it smells of fuel and fumes and poison.

‘N. Gin? Whatever is the matter?’

Gin hugs his arms to himself tighter. ‘If you wanted steam, you could’ve _asked_ for hot water.’

‘Oh, Ginny, don’t be like that…’

He slaps away the consoling hand roughly, shuffling further away from him on the bed, turning to look at him with stinging, teary eyes. Shame coils tight like a spring in his guts. A sharp pang of guilt stabs in his chest, through the heart, staking him like a vampire. His hands curl into fists and he glares at Tropy, without anger, without hate, with only betrayal, hot and biting.

‘Don’t _call_ me that!’ His voice is shrill with mounting anxiety. ‘Don’t- _tell_ me things like that if all you want is to cure your- your- your _sniffles!’_

Face twisting, Tropy sniffs and reaches out his hands, palms-up, a peace offering. ‘That’s not it at all, I-!’

‘You _used_ me!’ He’s shaking. His voice has raised to a pitch that could easily be compared to a fax machine. ‘You told me all those things because you wanted to _use_ me!’

Tropy reaches out, pained, guilty, his plan having backfired _horrendously._ He takes one of Gin’s trembling fists in his hands, cupping it, trying to will as much sorrow onto his face as possible, gulping down another sneeze. ‘Gin, that’s not it. I meant those things, I swear, I just-’

‘You don’t know,’ he says, forcing out the words through gritted teeth as he bites back tears, voice cracking, ‘How much those things _meant_ to me.’

His shoulders quake. He looks so fragile, as if he’ll break into pieces at any second, like an ornate ornamental egg, or a teacup, or a snowglobe. His features quiver, the corners of his mouth spasming, eye squinting, a tear falling down his drawn, strange cheek.

‘And you only said them to ease your _congestion-!’_

Oh, fuck, he’s crying now. Great wracking sobs are barely stifled by his own hands covering his mouth, snatching his fist out of Tropy’s hands. Tropy wants so badly to go back, right now, hop back in time and kick himself up the ass for even thinking that _stupid_ plan. Sure, his congestion has cleared up, but he’d suffer a thousand years of sneezing and sniffling if it meant poor Gin would stop _crying._

‘Gin, listen.’ He takes his hands, pries them away from his face, feels a wrenching stab of guilt when Gin won’t meet his gaze. ‘I never meant to hurt your feelings. I swear, I meant all the things I said, I didn’t meant to- make you feel like you were being used. I’m _sorry.’_

Gin looks up, meets his gaze, with a hurt, harrowed look, hissing ‘ _No you’re not,’_ before sniffling back his tears and regarding Tropy with the wary, worried eyes of a kicked dog. The honey-lemon tea sitting on the bedside table is cold.

With a pained wheeze, Tropy allows Gin’s hands to slip away, and he blinks away the soreness in his eyes before placing his hands on Gin’s upper arms, shuffling closer and leaning in.

‘I _am,’_ he says, ‘And I’ll prove it to you. Just give me time.’ A tremor runs through his body. He cups Gin’s face in one hand, makes him look at him, gives him the sorriest, most _pleading_ look, feels relief run through him when Gin’s face trembles in a way that hints he’s hiding a tiny smile. ‘There you are. _There_ you are. There’s my Ginny.’

Gin can’t help but titter softly, wiping away a tear. Tropy feels his chest flutter and he runs a hand through his hair, combing strays and greys into place before holding Gin’s warm, round face with both hands, brushing his cheek with a lazy thumb, relief flooding his body when he sees Gin’s anxiety start to melt away again, feeling pain ebb back and forth when he recognises that it’s not entirely gone.

‘I promise you that I meant every word of what I said. It was wrong of me to try and-’ He sniffles for emphasis- ‘-Use it to my advantage, but it’s high time somebody told you those things. You’re _brilliant._ And I really am glad you’re here. You could’ve done anything with your day,’ (Gin doesn’t want to correct him when he says this), ‘But you took the time to visit me, and _help_ me, and I’m so _thankful_ for that.’ He smiles softly, and Gin can’t help but notice that his thin beard (beards?) is crooked, uncombed. ‘I’m so _glad.’_

There’s a long pause as they just sit there, close, warm, quiet. Gin feels terribly silly for his outburst but there’s a lingering, swelling sensation of joy, pride, praise.

‘Just don’t use me as your personal steam machine again,’ he says, gently, joking. Tropy makes a weak sound, guilty, remorseful, before replying:

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

They’re so _close._ Tropy’s hands slowly slip from Gin’s face and onto his lap, the coarse starchy fabric of his labcoat, he inhales deeply the scent of sweat and fuel and detergent, oil and machinery, men and vanilla. Something about Gin’s polished face and pressed coat and combed hair makes him feel awfully conscious of his own cold-ravaged appearance, his red eyes, his pale face, his messy hair, god, he must reek of sweat…

But he still kisses him.

It just sort of happens. Like your morning routine. Autopilot. Neither realises they’re doing it until they taste each other, copper and steam, brass, oil, the scent of ozone, the colour of smoke. Tropy’s lips are soft and cold and his hands slip to Gin’s waist and pulls him gently closer; Gin’s breaths are warm and humid and hitching and his eyes flickeringly flutter shut as he melts into the sensation.

They only part when Tropy has to sneeze. Somehow Gin forgot until now how gross the concept of kissing someone with a severe cold is, but there’s something exciting, enticing about how repulsive it is, and he snickers as Tropy turns red, apologising, eyes as bleary as ever, head foggy though his chest is warm, like a hot water bottle, heavy and cozy and sweet.

Gin has to leave, he has work to do, Cortex will _notice_ he’s gone eventually, so he takes the mug of cold tea and promises to refill it. Tropy offers a pathetic wave from his undignified little bundle of blankets, still shaking but looking a lot less peaky, more colour in his cheeks, a glint of boyish glee in his eyes as Gin leaves.

-

It’s a while later, a long while later, when he gets a phone call. He was sleeping, trying to nap away the illness, when his phone starts buzzing, and he fumbles for it, blind in his bleariness, finally finding it and answering with a stuffy-nosed ‘ _Yes?’_

‘Dr. Tropy,’ says the whining, shaky-smiling voice of N. Gin, ‘A word?’

Tropy sits up in bed. ‘Of course, N. Gin, what’s the matter?’

Gin laughs, abruptly, sharply. ‘You know when you said- heh- that Time Traveller’s Flu is non-contagious?’

‘It is. What about it-?’

There’s a pause, then the tell-tale gasping inhale, then a loud, high-pitched sneeze from the other end, and Tropy can’t help but slump down and sigh exasperatedly.

‘Tell Cortex you’re sick. If he objects, sneeze on him until he lets you go. Or tell him to ask me. I’ll make some nonsense up about Time Traveller’s Flu being potentially deadly to non-time travellers and non-cyborgs and he’ll be sure to give you some time off.’

Gin giggles weakly, coughs audibly, and sighs. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

Smirking and snorting, Tropy relaxes in his bed. ‘Indeed. I hear hot lemon and honey tea works _miracles.’_

They laugh together for a brief moment, light as air, before bidding each other goodnight, hanging up, and snuggling down to recover, bundled up tight in warmth and quiet.


End file.
